My days in New York were more than a conference or a place to get away for a few days to. Now that I'm back I realize was an attempt to break out of this grey place I'm in by default. I feel so much like my life is out of my control and I've been forced into this bullshit rut of mediocrity. I really hate this place I'm in in every way possible.... yet I'm alive, right? Aren't I supposed to be humbly grateful that I've survived the fearsome clutches of cancer? That I'm 'supposed' to roll over and quietly accept that my life is fucked?
I hate this. I hate my life so much that I can't even be passionate about it. I feel like a wet noodle.
My memory is fuzzy and my life is not the same as it was before. I'm not even sure which way I'm supposed to be going. I stay home because of my fragile health and I'm really not sure what to even go out and do. I look out my windows and I don't recognize this place as a place I want to be.
I had a meltdown a few weeks ago where I was exhausted beyond coping and angry, desperate words just fell out of my mouth at my sons. It was almost like I was watching someone else control my actions.
I am one hundred percent about being responsible for ones own actions yet I fucked up. I was half asleep and my sons were hanging around in the house chatting and doing something on the computer. They were late to school and didn't seem at all concerned about getting there and I lost it.
I had this overwhelming fear that they would fail, have to repeat a year and then I'd be stuck in this house for an extra year. I yelled how I don't want to be here and how this isn't how my life is supposed to be. I yelled at them about how they expect me to spoon feed them and I can't take being here for an extra year. And I yelled it again, 'I can't TAKE this for another year", until they ran out the door. I'm only here to give them a stable few years to finish high school because I can barely cope with life as a mom now. I feel angry and scared and pissed off beyond all reason, yet I keep it to myself.... until I overflowed like a Menthos dropped into a 2 litre bottle of Coke.
I cried dry tears all day because my fucking tear ducts don't work and then I cried because my fucking tear ducts don't work. How is a person supposed to get a good cry in? Why is it that something as fundamental as crying or sleeping can be taken from you?
And if that doesn't convince you that I get the parent FAIL award... it was also my youngest son's 15th birthday. I sobbed as I cleaned the house, blew up balloons, scrubbed dishes, baked and iced a cake. I went over and over what I would say to them when they got home, if they came home. I tried to figure out a way I would earn their forgiveness for the horrible things I said. I felt like a monster.
By the afternoon as I was finishing the icing I was at the kitchen window putting the last touches on. Suddenly a couple of glowing, smiling faces popped up at me. Not only that but they had each brought a friend with them. I felt so overwhelmed that my awful behaviour had rolled of their backs and they were excited to get home to have the birthday celebrations. That's when I felt truly, truly grateful.
Grateful that I have such wonderful boys that somehow understood how much I love them and that I'm human and can crack under a feather. I apologized and they both hugged me and told me it wasn't a problem. They acknowledged that it was partially their fault and that they should have gone to school on time. They also didn't seem bothered when my eyes were gross, red and it looked like someone had punched my in the eyes from my body's feeble attempt at crying all day. All three of them and their friends were smiles and cheer singing happy birthday, batting around balloons and having a good time.
Not sure what this all has to do with New York except that I desperately needed to prove to myself that I could get a piece of myself back.
All my life plans and the things I had worked for have been thrown out the window with little hope of getting them back. The more time that goes by, the more I realize the game has been changed forever. The city I live now was supposed to be a place of transition, not a deep rut.
I'll never forget the week I received my transplant. I was in my hospital bed, dealing with all the chemo with the happy thought that I would get it done and then continue my plans of travelling and getting my MBA in Australia. I will never, never forget the moment when I was given the first beating of my spirit. My oncologist was at the end of my bed and I was chirping on telling him my plans for the future. That's when he told me I wouldn't be able to leave the country for 5 years. As he saw my look of utter horror and I argued with him for a bit, he said it was possible with the best case scenario that I may be able to travel to somewhere like New Zealand after 3 years. Apparently New Zealand is on par with Canada for treating BMT patients.
That's the first day a piece of me broke...
So after a year of being deadly ill before my diagnosis, 3 months of hospitalization and aggressive treatment...
...just shy of 4 years later and 2 days after my last immunization I hop on a plane.
It's about freaking time.